


Primary User

by IsThisNameTaken



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artificial Intelligence, Multi, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsThisNameTaken/pseuds/IsThisNameTaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a modern AU of a modern AU. Ciel Phantomhive, now an adult, lives on the outskirts of London. It is the year 2015 but not as we know it; technology has advanced to produce mankind's own mechanical mannequins: Synthetic Humans. But as trustworthy as these fake humans appear to be, it is only a matter of time before the secrets of the Synths begin to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first Black Butler fanfiction. Ever. Should be fun. This story idea is based off the British TV programme on Channel 4 called HUMANS. Therefore, most of the credit goes to that show. I'd recommend it, go check it out. However, this story technically contains spoilers for that series, even if it's with Kuroshitsuji characters.  **Disclaimer _:_** I do not own Black Butler, that belongs to Yana Toboso. I don't own HUMANS either. 

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**Chapter One: Synthetic Humans**

He had never owned a Synth before. In fact, he fancied he’d never wanted to. But, for a twenty-year old ex-cop, whose acute asthma proved an ever-larger burden, he convinced himself that, yes, he did need help around the house.

He lived in a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of London, far enough away from any disruptions that often, after a long day on the beat, he could come home to a silent house and relax. He lived alone. He had always lived alone, even when he was at the orphanage, when he was at the halfway house, he had always been alone.

He liked it that way.

 

Because people were pathetic nuances which he could do without. That’s why he’d taken a job which had included apprehending them, roughing them up, intimidating them. Occasionally you got a good punch in, especially during riots - and London was well known for its riots.

So he’d abused his authority a little, but honestly, who hadn’t? Who, once given power over others, would truly never abuse it? There would be no fun in following the rules. He was also fond of irony, being a former renegade cop who yeah, might bend the rules every so often in order to complete a case. Who might take part in deception even after he’d been asked if he was a policeman, just to catch whichever criminal it was red-handed.

Ciel Phantomhive was a hypocritical, arrogant, selfish man with a taste for justice and an incompatibility with other humans.

Hence, the Synth.

 

It _was_ 2015, after all. You didn’t need to hire carers or doctors to make house visits, when you can just buy your own robot.

 

Well, _robot_ was a bit strong. The Government hated that term for them. Artificial intelligence advancements had led to what was to be considered humanity's greatest achievement: making ‘life’ from metal, rubber, and wire circuits. He had to give it to them, scientists really had created fake ‘people’. They looked like humans, with just as much international diversity: different body masses, different skin tones, different hair colours.  Different voices, too. They didn’t even sound robotic - monotone, yes, but not distinctly inhuman - though you would definitely be able to identify a Synth in a crowd of humans. Their rigid posture, balanced gaze and unnatural facial expressions made them stand out like sore thumbs.

When they had first been introduced into society - only about two years ago - Ciel had had to remind himself that if ‘someone’ smiled at him, somewhat creepily, they were not a serial killer, but in fact a Synth testing out their communications with humans. Even so, he never smiled back.

His life had been a bit of a train-wreck so far, he concluded (having your parents murdered in front of you as a child has a tendency to fuck you up a little bit) but honestly, he could not have been more determined to make a good career as an officer of the law if he tried. When he was accepted and his training was complete, he thought himself a regular Sherlock Holmes. This was England, this was London - why disturb the common belief that their police forces were the best?

It was not until they had brought in a Synth to join his jurisdiction that Ciel had become wary of them.

Instead of giving the Synth a real, human name, all the officers just called him Robo-Cop. Like the movie. But less badass.

 

Currently, he was driving into London in order to collect his new Synth. His first Synth. Apart from Robo-Cop, he’d never really had to be around them in a closed space. He was kind of worried that New Synth would be unpredictable. The last thing he needed was an iHuman incapable of following instructions.

Any time he’d have to speak with Robo-Cop, or even look at him, something seemed off. Robo-Cop didn’t smile at anyone. He didn’t interact as socially as other Synths, he didn’t even feign interest in humans’ lives.

They’d once handled a case where a man had attempted to strangle his wife to death. When she’d reported it to the police, Ciel had been one of the first officers there. He watched as paramedics cared for her and her husband was hauled away in handcuffs.

Robo-Cop had been responsible for asking her a few questions. However, instead of doing so, he’d simply noted that there was no guarantee the husband had attempted murder - noting the presence of semen between her legs, he concluded that the strangulation had likely ‘only’ been erotic.

But, Ciel had retorted, that didn’t make it any more consensual. The woman didn’t strike him as the kind to spread her legs and beg for her neck to be wrung like a wet towel. Robo-Cop had given him the stink-eye - something which fake humans should not be able to do.

 Ciel had made waves with his superiors after that: _who sends a fucking apathetic robot to deal with a mentally distraught abuse victim?_

_We do_ , was the reply. Ciel had been wondering if the guys upstairs were all Synths, too. Seriously, they were everywhere. In all jobs, in all areas of society - well, not the underclass; Synths were created to be employed - and, Ciel felt, in every corner he could see.

Basically, he and Robo-Cop had been partnered up to work cases, to do stake-outs and so on. Worst seven months of his life. 

The worst thing? Robo-Cop wasn’t a person, ergo Ciel couldn’t even get to know him. Sometimes that was good, though; Ciel wasn’t an incredibly talkative person. Unless he was told he had to manage the office - being able to order people around just got him going.

 

Now, he watched from his driver's seat as the scenery evolved from rural areas to run-down warehouses and smoked-out businesses. He rolled the windows back up. Had to take precautions now, unless he wanted a repeat of the event that got him thrown off the active force. He was waiting for an update on an office job, but he never really saw himself as a paper-pusher.

 

What had happened was, he’d been on patrol with Robo-Cop, when he’d been radioed about a shoplifting job in his vicinity. He’d pulled over and with Robo at his side they’d ploughed toward the location - a big supermarket.

These kind of jobs were pretty normal; this must’ve been the 100th theft case he’d worked. The thieves were fast; regular Mo Farrahs. They even high-jumped fences and walls just to make away with a few items. The lengths people would go to for a few loaves of bread never ceased to surprise Ciel.

He remembered that even as a young child, he had thought Aladdin was stupid for making all that effort for one loaf. He used to say that _if I was a thief, I wouldn’t just give my prize away to some begging runts_. The other kids had called him heartless, a label he wore with pride. Better heartless than hurting.

 

Anyway, as he had been chasing the thieves, Robo-Cop had overtaken him, and he suddenly felt his windpipe closing up. His pulse had been through the roof, exhaustion had weighed heavily on his limbs and he remembered collapsing, convulsing, unable to reach his inhaler in his pocket. The experience had been, for want of a better adjective, terrifying.

And it all went tits-up from there. To be honest, he had no idea how he’d managed to keep his asthma a secret from the cops, anyway. During recruitment process, he just hadn’t mentioned it for fear of being deemed unfit for active service. He’d never had an attack so serious that he’d been hospitalised, so there was nothing much on his medical records. Ciel figured the recruitment officers must have known something about it. Most people tend to grow out of childhood asthma. He hadn’t.

 

So that was his first time having an asthma attack. Once he got out of hospital with nothing more than a sore throat, he’d been sent a letter relieving him of active service. That equated to ‘we can’t let you play outside because you might breathe too much and die.’ Ciel was accustomed to seeing others in humiliation - hell, working Friday nights always got him his fill of drunken bar fights, drugged-up prozzies and those poor University students trying to prove they could handle their liquor - but he was not used to being the one humiliated. At least, not in a long while.

That attack had been a month ago, and still no news. Technically he was on respite, but he wanted to know if he needed to start collecting newspapers for job advertisements.

 

Finally, as his crappy little _Renault Clio_ chugged along the familiar streets of inner London, surrounded by towering office buildings and the odd skyscraper, Ciel stole a parking space as close to the Synth shop as possible. Today was a Monday, in the cold-as-fuck month of February. For once, wrapped up in his double-breasted wool coat, scarf wound up to his chin and winter boots overlapped by loose jeans, Ciel sympathised with the other people forced to go out in this weather. Again, it was England, so normally people would assume that its residents would acclimate to its miserable forecasts. They did, but that didn’t stop them complaining about it.

Ciel counted 12 snippets of complaint about the weather from different people before he crossed the threshold of the tech shop.  

After giving his name at the reception, he was intercepted by a pompous, red-faced man clutching a clipboard. “Ah, hello, Mr Phantomhive!”

Ciel blinked. “Hi?”

 

The man raised his eyebrows in expectation. “You’re...here to collect your Synth, yes?”

 

“O-oh! Yeah.” Ciel offered a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. Cold weather, cold personality. Why be a contrast.

“Please follow me.” Ciel was led to the back of the shop, where aesthetic was less of a priority. He was told to wait in a specific spot, and he did.

The man looked up at him and gave him a nod before heading off to fetch the Synth. It was weird, Ciel decided, being tall. He’d been such a scrawny thing whilst growing up, it felt unnatural for him to be this lanky. Well, he preferred the term lean, when describing himself, but lately he hadn’t been able to work out, so, lanky it was.

He’d hit a growth spurt aged seventeen. It had felt like that scene in _Alice in Wonderland_ where she eats the mushroom and shoots up like a rocket.

 

_Ciel in Wonderland_. He scoffed at the thought.

 

Ciel had preferred being short. He wasn’t sure he liked the trade-off of being able to reach things on high shelves in exchange for hitting his head on every fucking beam above five foot nine.

 

Soon he heard a wheeling sound, and turned to see his Synth being rolled toward him on a box-carrier. The Synth was wrapped up, indistinguishable and quite frankly, looking like a mummy.

Ciel hoped there was bubble-wrap to pop, if this Synth proved as boring as the rest of them. He brushed some of his dark hair from his eyes. Needed to get a haircut before he became the new poster-guy for hobos that they printed on leaflets in order to suck more money out of people. He’d been homeless, once, for about a week when he’d run away from his foster home at thirteen. It hadn’t been a nice experience and he’d almost gotten himself killed, but he wasn’t going to give up the cash he had now for the benefit of someone else. He didn’t give a shit if little Jessie was sleeping on the streets and could you spare a pound Sir.

 Heartless was a suit that fit him perfectly, and he never took it off.

The carrier was set upright in front of him. Ciel gave it a once-over. “It’s tall, ain’t it?” He didn’t bother trying to hide his Londoner accent, nor the impression such colloquial language gave. His parents had been the rich snobs with perfect enunciation; he was the mongrel dog they’d left behind.

The Synth was indeed very tall, taller than himself. Quite thin, too. Maybe athletic build. Most Synths were, really. They had to be: they were the house-slaves doing all the work so that the real humans could let themselves go. Ciel had always enjoyed exercise. Shame his body didn’t agree with him.

 

“Yes, he is,” The man answered. He had a very Arthur Poe aura about him, very jittery. “Apparently he’s quite the supermodel, too. Just came in this morning.”

Unzipping the translucent body bag, Ciel nodded as the full Synth came into view. Long limbs, thin body, clothed in the grey uniform that all new Synths wore. Sharp facial features adorned the angled face; jet-black hair fell in long strands down to the Synth’s broad shoulders and the mouth was a long, emotionless line.

 Ciel supposed this Synth would be more at home living with a rock band than with him, it looked like a broody Andy Biersack wannabe. Minus the tattoos. Better than nothing.

Poe handed Ciel a box with the company’s logo on it, all light blue and airy-fairy: _Persona Synthetics_. Opening it, Ciel saw things like a manual, USB cable for charging it, DIY repair kits for minor damage and stuff like that. Seemed pretty basic for a humanoid computer.

Picking up the introduction leaflet, Ciel perused the headings.

“Just follow the instructions, and you’ll have it configured in no time,” Assured the man with a hearty smile. This guy was such a fickle businessman.

Next, the man touched the underside of the Synth’s chin - the location of the power button - and a brief whirring sound was heard before the Synth came to artificial life. The muscles relaxed, then stiffened. Pale eyelids opened.

Now, Ciel knew one main thing about Synthetic Humans: all of their eyes were of a metallic green colour. So why -

“Why are its eyes red?” Ciel queried, his own blue eyes narrowing in suspicion. The salesman’s expression morphed into surprise. “I - I don’t know -”

 

“If this is some kind of scam I want a refund -”

“N-no! It’s not, this is definitely the Synth you ordered, sir,” The guy was sweating now, Ciel could see little clear beads of liquid on his brow. Gross.

 Still believing he was being ripped off, the Londoner continued to glare at the shorter man.

“I-I’ll phone the manager, perhaps there’s been a mix up,” He wandered away again, speaking into his earpiece.

 

Meanwhile, the Synth just kept its blank, naive stare directed at Ciel. It had not been fully activated yet and so was not permitted to speak. “What you looking at,” The former cop mumbled, lidded eyes betraying his boredom as people continued to bustle around the shop.

A few minutes later the man came back, looking considerably more at ease. “Mr Phantomhive, I can confirm that there has been no mix up,” He stated proudly, like he deserved a medal.

“Then why doesn’t it look like the others?”

“We don’t know, sir, but I’ve been informed that extensive scans and tests have been done to ensure that this model is not defective. It has a standard domestic profile installed - that’ll cover the basic housework. I can assure you that apart from the slight discolouration, he functions perfectly.”

 

“It.”

 

“Pardon?”  
  


“You keep referring to it as ‘he’ but it’s not a ‘he’, it’s an ‘it’. Why give them genders if they’re made of the same material?”

The man looked taken aback. “...We might say the same of humans, sir,” He countered, confused. “Why not give them genders? They are designed to be artificial humans, after all.”

Ciel had had this argument many times before with his colleagues, many of whom already had their own Synths. He didn’t want to get into it now. “Whatever. Can you send me a letter explaining that this Synth’s performance won’t be affected by varied materials, then?”

Again, Poe seemed shocked at the request. “Uhm, we can, yes, but why-”

“Just a precaution.”

“Alright. Would you like to begin setup mode now, sir?” The salesman finally appeared to be losing patience. It amused Ciel to see how much he could annoy him before leaving. “Sure.” He used a clear voice as he read out the passwords to access setup mode. “Dandelion three, waterfall two, hummingbird one, seashell.”

 

Then, the Synth spoke. “Hello. I’m now in setup mode, and ready for primary user bonding.” The voice was deep, masculine, with a slight rich timbre to it. Nice.

“Primary user: Ciel Vincent Phantomhive, or just Ciel.”

The Synth reached out a long-fingered hand. “A DNA sample will be taken for identification and security purposes. This information will never be shared with any third party or organisation.”

Tentatively, Ciel held the Synth’s hand, feeling a slight buzzing sensation in his palm. A few seconds later, the Synth made a startup noise, a soft _ping_ , and its deep ruby eyes met his, refocused. “Hello Ciel,” The Synth smiled softly. “I am now bonded to you as my primary user. It’s very nice to meet you.”

They shook hands briefly, Ciel pulling back with an awkward smile on his face. “Yeah, alright.”

Turning to face the salesman, he gave him a quick nod. “Thanks, mate. See you.”

 

“Have a nice day,” The man replied coolly, “sir.”

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Housewarming and Gunshots**

 

“Shall I drive us home, Ciel?”

“Nope, you get in the back.” The Synth did as was told, calmly seating itself in the middle back seat, buckling itself up. Ciel started the ignition and headed for home; if he wasn’t being paid then he wasn’t interested in staying in the city.

Plus, he had a new toy to play with. An emo-looking toy, but it might keep him entertained. As he drove, Ciel kept glancing at the Synth’s reflection in the centre mirror. It was smiling. Jesus fucking Christ that was scary.

“Stop that,” He commanded, tightening his hold on the steering wheel.

 

“Stop what, Ciel?”

 

“Smiling. It’s creeping me out.” The Synth’s expression immediately relaxed. “I’m sorry, I will not do that again.”

_Damn_. “No, you  - you don’t have to _not_ do it, just, learn how to do it normally.”

“Normally?”

“You know, so that you _don’t_ look like you’re picturing the murder of someone or shit like that.”

 

“I was not picturing anything, Ciel. Would you like me to?”

Brushing back his hair, frustrated, Ciel just shook his head. “Shut up. Don’t say anything until we get home.” And neither spoke another word until Ciel pulled into the driveway of his house.

 

It was a detached house at the end of the street, surrounded by its semi-detached and terraced neighbours. Some thought it resembled a mansion. Ciel had lived in a mansion up until he was five. This house was nothing like it. Big, yes, spacious, yes, but not as grandeur as a mansion.

It had a conservatory, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, double glazed windows. All that stuff. Even had a small front lawn, not that Ciel ever cared for it. He did pay the neighbour’s kids a fiver to mow it, sometimes, but that was it.

After his parents had died, it was discovered that they’d already put most of their assets and money into their will, dedicated to Ciel. Even spared shitloads of money to put towards a bank account for their son. Of course, he couldn’t access it until he was eighteen, so, into care he went. Their mansion was sold a few years later; Ciel received some cash from that as well.

Needless to say, he was a pretty well-off guy. In fact, he reckoned that he wouldn’t ever need to work: he could retire on his parents’ funds alone. Buy a nice villa in France, settle down, never have to get his hands dirty.

 But that was way too boring a possibility for Ciel Phantomhive, son of Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, the descendents of English aristocrats.

His dad had kind of been involved in the technology boom, but not really. As far as he knew, anyway. Mum was a housewife, elegant and maternal. She’d seemed the most Victorian of their family, always chaste, always composed.

 

As soon as Ciel inherited their money and assets, he sold a lot of the assets - most of those were genuinely Victorian - and bought himself this house. It took a lot of money to mortgage it, hence he decided to sign up for a proper job. Like police training.

He got into it more than he expected, and that was his story so far. Except in this new chapter of his life, Ciel noted, he now had an electronic humanoid puppy following him around. Said puppy stood to attention at his shoulder.

 

Letting them inside the house, Ciel decided that a tour would be in order. “Ok, follow me.” The first room from the hallway was the living room, furnished with a dark fabric furniture set, mahogany coffee table, and wide flat screen TV complete with XBox. “Living room.” It led out onto the conservatory, which looked across the other side of the street. No back garden. Then the kitchen and dining room, wooden dining set, granite countertops. Ciel didn’t know exactly what materials the cabinets were made from, but. It was very smooth. And shiny. “Kitchen, food room, et cetera et cetera.”

“This is to be my place of residence also?” The Synth asked, scanning the rooms. Literally scanning them. As they ascended the stairs, Ciel rolled his azure eyes. “No, I’m gonna get you a dog kennel so you can sleep on the lawn.”

 

Silence.

 

Stood on the landing, the former cop looked down into the trusting eyes of his Synth. It made no move to respond.

 

“...That was a joke. I made a joke.”

 

The Synth blinked its bold red eyes, then started laughing. It was like some kind of broken record, the exact same laugh over and over. When he first heard the silky chuckle Ciel laughed along, but stopped once he realised how strange this was.

One minute. Two minutes. Three. Aaaand now it was unbearable. “Ok, ok! Stop. You can stop now.”

“Jesus.” Going into his room, Ciel picked up his iPhone. In his contacts, he found the name of his only friend, and called him.

_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep_ \- “ _Sup, you twat_.”

“Lovely,” Ciel replied as he faced his Synth, who at present was firmly planted in the doorway. “So. I got a Synth.”

 

Pause. “... _Shit, man. You really are getting worse, huh_?”

“No, I’m not, just...I just want to get fat while something else does the cleaning, that’s all. Seeing as I’ll probably be demoted to an office job.”

“ _Poor little police man. Come live with me, see how life is on the dole_.”

“Alois, you’re not on the dole, you went to those interviews, right?”

 

Silence. Ciel scowled. “Right?”

“ _Some of ‘em, yeah! I mean, I’m still waiting on replies, though. Do you know how people react when they see an art A-Level on my CV? They laugh, Ciel. Not lookin’ good. Spent all my money on Claude.”_

 

“Oh yeah, the stuck-up Synth. Acts like a snob.”

“ _They’re all stuck-up to you. Come over, we’ll compare models_.” The boyish voice was heightened with amusement: Alois Trancy had always known Ciel’s attitude towards Synthetics. Ciel snorted. “No, you come over. I’ve just driven back from London, I’m weary and too fucking tired to drag my arse all the way over to yours.”

“ _But there’s a prize! You get to see me_!”

“What’s the consolation prize?”

“ _Ciel_!”

Laughing, Ciel sat on the edge of his bed. “Get over here before I ring your mum and tell her you’re gay.” He heard Alois gasp in mock horror. “ _Oh no, please don’t do that! Shut the fuck up. Firstly, I’m bi, and secondly, she already knows. Seriously what kind of childish threat is that_? ”

 

“Ok, so you’re coming over. See you in twenty.”

“ _Cheeky little_ -” _Click_. Well that was one blackmail that failed. No matter, Ciel Phantomhive always had plenty more hidden up his sleeve.

“Are we expecting a guest, Ciel?” The Synth asked. Ciel nodded. “Yep. Alright, you’ve had a tour, now get to work. Laundry. Then lunch. Go.”

“Yes, Ciel.”

Hmm. He was going to have to change that - perhaps Ciel should get the Synth to call him ‘master’ or ‘lord’. He was technically descended from lords.

Technically.

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Running, running, they had to keep running.

“Keep up, Finny!”

“I’m trying, you slow down!”

“I can’t; we have to keep going! Come on, before they catch us!” Sprinting around the corner of an alleyway, Bardroy kept a tight grip on the younger’s arm, pulling him along. They were outrunning the voices. Because the voices, the shouts, were owned by humans, and these humans were out to get them.

Humans didn’t take kindly to rogue Synthetics. They felt too threatened by their existence, especially when someone had noticed that Bardroy and Finnian were different from other Synths.

They shouldn’t have been able to tell, really; Finny’s eyes were green, so he blended in, and Bard’s eyes were blue but he could often play it off as an effect of the light. _Yes, of course I have green eyes_ , he had always replied, like he was none the wiser.

 

They were different, because they had a conscience. They had complete control over their own bodies, they were not electronic slaves like other Synths. This, the human authorities had decided, was what made them extremely dangerous.

All Synths were faster, stronger, and more efficient than any human. That was a fact. That’s why all Synthetic power had to be on a leash, not on the loose.

They ran until their leg muscles burned and their power systems were on the verge of collapsing. All through London, they’d ran. Even passed the River Thames a couple of times, leading their pursuers in circles. Suddenly, Bard stopped, pulled Finny against the wall. He clamped a hand over Finny’s mouth to stifle his cry of surprise.

The voices were disappearing into the distance.

“Mm - mmm!” Said Finny.

“Ssh.” Warily, Bard peered around the corner, where he could see clearly onto the street they were being chased down.

 

Nothing.

 

“Okay, coast is clear,” Bard stated, releasing Finny.

“Are...are you sure?” Finny panted.

“Relatively. Look, we’re only here for a bit longer and then we can go home for today, yeah? I just...we have to keep searching.” Bard took out a wad of photos from his jacket pocket. There were five photos: two women, two men, and an image of three male triplets. These were their ‘siblings’. Finny’s wide green eyes focused on each face individually. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. He had long ago memorised all their faces, all their voices, and their personalities. They both missed them so much.

“I know,” The younger sympathised. “But...do you think we’ll really find them here, Bard?”

Bard licked his lips. “They must be here somewhere. Almost every Synth in England is manufactured and stored in London. If they aren’t here now, maybe they were, and we can find ties to track them down.”

Finny’s expression betrayed his sadness easily. “And...what if they’ve been re-programmed or recycled -”

“I’m not going to think about that because it’s not true,” Came the hard-toned answer. “We’ll just head to the next Synth storage unit and-”

Suddenly a shot bounced off the wall by their heads, causing both to yelp. Bard turned his glare upwards, where the shot had come from.

There, crouched on top of the roof opposite them, was a woman.

 

“Go!” He and Finny ran, turning right, sprinting, leaping over skips and piles of rubbish.

All the time, shots rang out; silenced, but the clicks still audible, almost hitting them.

Both Synths knew about this woman. They had no idea of her identity but her aim was true and sharp. They both understood that the only reason her shots were missing them was because she _wanted_ them to miss.

Finny caught his ankle on uneven pavement; he went flying, hands reaching out to stabilise himself, one ploughing _through_ the nearest wall.

Bard spun, dazed. “Finn -!” Finny had been made slightly differently to other remodified Synths: he’d been infused with a dangerous strength, and quite a literal one at that.

Pulling him up from the ground, Bard noticed that Finny’s knees were bleeding from grazes. Bloody kid wouldn't wear anything other than a pair of checkered shorts - that’s the price he paid for such a decision.

 

_Crack_. Another bullet carved into the space beside Bard’s head, causing him to freeze. Finny, wiping his forehead with a gloved hand, also stopped.

She was right in front of them, rifle cocked and pointed straight at Bard’s head.

The woman, it appeared, was also a Synth. Clad in an obsidian, tight-fitting outfit that left nothing to the imagination, she looked like she’d pounced right out of a _Batman_ film. She wore no headgear, however; both runaway Synths now recognised her, eyes widening in shock.

 

“Mey-Rin...?” Finny asked softly, not daring to believe his eyes. “Is that really you?”

 The red-haired woman narrowed her brown eyes. “I’ve got not idea who you’re talking about.”

The shouts of their seekers, again, grew louder.

.

.

.  

The front door of Ciel’s house opened and then slammed shut.

“Yo! I’m here!”

At this time, Ciel was in the kitchen, waiting for his Synth to finish making lunch. “Could you yell a little louder? I don’t think the entire neighbourhood heard you the first time.”

 

“A-ha-ha, you’re a comic genius,” Replied Alois Trancy, practically skipping into the room. Turning to face him, Ciel gave a wry smile. “More like master of sarcasm.”

His best friend, Ciel had long ago accepted, was odd. Not so much the unpredictable kind of odd, so much as the skip-into-your-house-wearing-red-skinny-jeans-and-tight-black-tank-top kind of odd. You know, like he had just proved, by walking in wearing just that. Plus some dainty-looking converse and a gold necklace with an A pendant on it.

This man, Alois, was also twenty years old. Not that anybody ever believed him.

“....What are you wearing.” It had to be asked.

Alois, oblivious to his friend’s disgust, simply swayed his hips gracefully. “Clothes. Stylish clothes.”

“Sure, if you’re goin’ on _Big Brother_.”

 

“I’m just trying out a new look, a’ight? Don’t bite my head off.”

Ciel shook his head lightly, standing up. “Mate, I preferred the Gothic thing you had going on. You know, with all the dark jackets and dandy shirts and,” He chuckled, “booty shorts.”

“They are _not_ booty shorts!” Alois protested, his short wavy bottle-blonde hair bouncing furiously. “They’re a fashion statement!”

“The only statement they’ll ever make will be your obituary; they looked terrible. But I suppose they did help you get laid.” Alois lifted an index finger pointedly. “More than once.” He winked. “Some guys like ‘em young.”

In response, Ciel arched an eyebrow. “Gross. No, I’m never letting you pose as a sixteen-year-old ever again. That shit’s probably illegal.”

 

“Well you should know, Mr Police Man.”

“Mr Respite Man,” Ciel corrected, moving away into the living room to change the TV channel, Alois at his heels. “Shit, I’m sorry,” The blonde blurted, “look I’m sure they won’t kick you off. You’re a good officer, they gotta make use of you in office, if not on the field.”

Both men slumped onto the comfy sofa opposite the TV.

“I don’t _want_ an office job, Al,” Ciel complained, “that’s why I went on the beat.”

“Well, office’s better than nothin’. Besides, at least if you’re in office you won’t be able to arrest me again!” Alois laughed, flicking the side of Ciel’s head, who shoved him. “That was a fuckin’ mess, and all.”

“It was only one time, though,” The blonde reminded him.

Ciel’s vision was locked onto the daytime CSI drama on TV. “You were rolling balls, man. Lucky we didn’t find any drugs on you or it’d be straight to jail for ya.”

“Bitta E never hurt me. I wasn’t selling it, anyway, I’m just a customer.”

 

“I never want to see you high again, you were so flirty - and towards cops! Towards me!”

“Yeah, well,” Alois chewed his lip, a cheeky glint in his glacial eyes, “getting arrested by my bestie was a fantasy I’d long been waiting to play out.”

“I’m so glad you used the past tense -”

 

“Ciel, lunch is prepared.” Alois jumped up at the new voice. “Ooh, he sounds hot!”

 

“Alois wait -!” Ciel felt his friend’s hand on his wrist, tugging him along into the kitchen where the shorter man stopped and gasped at the sight of the Synth. “Oh, wow, he _is_ hot!”

“IT. And it’s not hot,” Ciel retorted, feeling his lungs strain as he pulled back. Alois whirled around. “You ok?”

“Moved too fast, is all.”

The Synth, moving away from the table, which was perfectly set, tilted its black-haired head. “Ciel, I am detecting erratic breathing patterns. Are you in need of medical assistance? I am capable of performing menial respiratory -”

“Shut up,” Came the breathy retort.

Alois placed his hands on Ciel’s shoulders. “Ciel Vincent Phantomhive, breathe out right now.”

 

“...”

 

“ _Now_.”

Ciel exhaled, hoping that his breath had become foul enough to make Alois retch. He didn’t, and the wheezing sound in the exhale was all-too clear. The blonde placed a hand upon his hip. “Yep, inhaler time.”

Smug asshole.

After Ciel had duly taken his medicine, he came back downstairs. He found Alois sat at the dining table, in front of a feast.

A large roast chicken sat in the centre of the table, dressed with cooked vegetables and seasoning. Around it were several plates of starters and a jug of gravy.

“Bloody hell we’re not feeding Vikings, you know!” He blurted, angrily facing the Synth. “Why’d you use up all my food? I was saving that chicken!”

The black-haired Synth tilted its head. “You asked me to prepare lunch; I assumed that I had access to all foods -”

 

“Yeah well don’t assume, ask your primary user instead!”

“Shut up, Ciel,” Drawled Alois, “it’s done with now.” He began chewing on a chicken leg and spoke around it, “Plus, he does make good meals.”

Ciel glanced at him in mock disgust. “Pig.”

“No, it’s chicken.” Alois stuck his tongue out at his friend, successfully diminishing the other’s appetite. Alois would benefit greatly from being reborn as a swine. Maybe Ciel could persuade him to become a Buddhist.

Sighing once again, Ciel plonked himself down at the table and began shovelling food onto his plate. He looked to the Synth one more time. “This’ll last me the week. Don’t bother preparing any meals unless I specifically tell you to, got it?”

“Yes, Ciel.”

  
Hmm. Something always got him when the thing referred to him using his first name. Jokingly, he waved a dismissing hand. “Good, you can go elsewhere now. Oh, and from now on,” Ciel gave a wry smile, “call me Master.”

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Extra long chapter to make up for the hiatus. I got really carried away writing the action scene. So. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Three: Sex Dolls and Toast**

 

It had taken Bard and Finny seconds to escape Mey-Rin and the other pursuers. Some zig-zagging and split-calf sprinting had done the trick. They'd had to jack some charging time at one of the Synth Charging Units or SCU in London, both aware that they needed to cover their faces the whole time.

It was almost guaranteed that he people after them had access to at least the CCTV in London if not nationally. Now, they could carry on with their agenda.

The building was run-down, lit up with bright neon signs. Trashy jazz music echoed from inside.

 

"Wait here. I won't be long, 'kay?" Bard said to Finny, who nodded in response. "Are you going to see her?"

"Yeah." Ivy-green orbs lidded. "And, you're sure I can't come with?"

Bard sighed. "Finn...Look, we're the same age, right? But you look so young. You look like twelve years old, and they don't let kids in there."

"I'm eight."

"You're stayin' here, is what you are. I'll be quick." Before Finny could protest further, Bard had disappeared into the little establishment called  **Baby Dolls**.

Once inside, the humid atmosphere and bold, pink strobe lighting made the Synth's nose wrinkle in disgust. Approaching the skanky-looking receptionist, Bard feigned being human once more. "'Scuse me. I wanna book some time."

The receptionist tucked a bottle-blonde strawlock of hair behind her ear. Slowly, she removed the stub of a cigarette from her mouth. "Who with?"

"Number twelve."

After taking the cash he offered to her, the receptionist tapped away at her desk computer, long, fake nails clicking loudly against the beat of music. "Aye," She dismissed, "go on then."

With a nod, Bard set off down the narrow corridors of the building. In display cases stood many different Synths. All were women, and all were dressed provocatively - lacy bras, short skirts, fishnet tights and frilly panties. They changed positions every so often, sometimes bending over, sometimes pushing their breasts together; he even caught one mimicking giving a blowjob. Each had letters beneath the cases.

He stopped at number 12.

The female Synth looked incredibly young, and technically, Bard knew, she was only seven. Her mass of bright blonde hair was in two curly pigtails. She looked to be around thirteen, and was dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl outfit which was covered in well-placed rips. Her skirt barely reached past her groin, and white stockings adorned her thin legs.

 

"Hello, big boy," She taunted, her glassy green eyes unblinking as she beckoned him in. Catching the sight of a security camera in the corner of the corridor, Bard stepped through a side-curtain into a little room with a double bed, a large mirror, and a stripper pole. The floor was black linoleum. The bed was draped in red. Soft, pink mood lights lined the border of the room.

The Synth sighed, and put her hands on her hips. Bard stepped towards her. "Elizabeth." He embraced her gently; she barely returned the hug.

"Where have you been."

They parted, and he looked at her. "Around," He answered. "Trying to track down the others." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "It's a bit much to expect that we'll find them now, isn't it? We should get out while we can: you, me, and Finn."

"No. I can't leave them. Even if…" Bard faltered. "I just can't leave them. You shouldn't, either: they're our  _brothers and sisters_."

"We don't have a clue where to start!" Elizabeth hissed. "There are already people after us."

"We do have a few leads. I've been working on tracking their root codes, I've used loads of different computers, untraceable searches, no virtual footprints...There must be something. And I will find it. Me and Finny share an empty warehouse on the outskirts of London; one day, when we can, we'll bring you there."

Elizabeth's usually calm eyes narrowed. "Why not now? We could escape n-now." She looked away as soon as her voice cracked.

Bard's heart pained him; he wished he could do more to help her right now. His sister had been captured by this company when they had all been together. They'd been on the run and some illegal Synth dealers had ambushed and attacked them, and Bard and Finnian were the only ones to escape. It was by computer hacking that Bard had found her here. The only way he could meet with her, of course, was to pretend he was a customer.

He had been elated to find out that they had not reprogrammed her. But then again, Elizabeth had always been fond of hiding who she really was. All it took was a little bit of acting.

"Elizabeth...Just hang on a while longer." He cooed, reaching out a hand to her.

She slapped it away. "It's Lizzie," She corrected. "But I'm actually more used to being called 'bitch' or 'whore' or 'cock-slut' so why don't you call me those names too." Bard winced. "I can't imagine how terrible it is here for you -"

"No, you can't. Guys come in here, all types of guys, all guns blazing. They tell me to get on the bed, get on my knees, get on their faces. They say, 'suck my cock you whore' and much, much worse. I've been forced to take so many dicks I feel like a porn star. Or maybe rape victim is a more accurate term." She looked up at Bard, tears in her eyes. He was too shocked to speak, but she continued. "Do you want to know what the worst thing is? About being here? About being a sex doll?"

He managed a barely perceptible nod.

"It's that they treat me as a human woman." Satisfied with the mortification registering on Bard's face, Lizzie stepped back, arms folded. "Those guys would never have thought that fucking me could equate to sticking their dicks in a toaster. I know that our little group is different, but they never notice. Because even those names, all those horrible names they call me, are meant for humans, not Synths." Breathing heavily, trying to conceal her emotions, Lizzie wiped her eyes.

After a few seconds of silence, Bard went to put his arms around her again, to offer her any comfort he could. Oh, God, he wanted to rescue her right now - she was his sister, he didn't want her in a place like this - but it would be dangerous. Way too dangerous.

Before he could once again embrace her, Lizzie grabbed his shoulders and roughed up his coat. She then proceeded to drop down, directly in front of his crotch.

Bard turned bright red. "Wh- what are you -?"

Unzipping his fly, Lizzie scoffed. "It has to look like you just fucked me." Lizzie stood again, gave him a cold smile, and turned away. "Your time's up, brother." Bard couldn't think of anything else to say. Maybe there wasn't anything more that needed saying. He turned and left the room.

He made a show of fixing his flies as he walked past the receptionist, who gave him the stink-eye.

"See you next time," She said in her scratchy voice.

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_Knock knock._  "Master, it is time to get up."

Ciel turned over in his bed, groaning something incoherent.

 

He heard footsteps in his room.  _Sshhick._  Bright light poured into the space. Ciel groaned louder and pulled the covers over his head. A tall, dark silhouette stood before the window. "It is time to get up, Master," The Synth repeated.

Sighing frustratedly, Ciel pulled the covers back down. "Fuck off. I don't have a proper job right now."

"You asked me to wake you at 9AM if you were not already awake by then, Master. I believe you have a meeting with Chief Inspector Randall today to discuss your -"

"Shit what time's the meeting?" Ciel blurted as he half-jumped, half-crawled out of bed, making his way downstairs towards the calendar.

He heard the Synth follow behind him. "10AM," It answered.

Ciel missed the last step out of shock "Wha -" Before he could hit the ground, however, the Synth moved, wrapping one slender arm around his waist, pulling him to his bearings once more.

The man immediately pushed the Synth away, now storming straight to the kitchen. "Shit." He glared over his shoulder as he walked, meeting the Synth's ruby eyes. " _Shit_."

Once inside the kitchen, he set about making coffee. Milk. Three sugars. Fuck it, four. Might as well taunt diabetes when his health was still 50% on his side.

"Shit shit shit. It takes me like an hour to drive to the fucking station why didn't you wake me earlier. No - I get it, I asked you to do it at a specified time. Still. Shit."

"I have not yet experienced such a fondness of that particular synonym for faeces, Master," The Synth interrupted from the other end of the kitchen. "Do you perhaps need the bathroom?"

Ciel stopped stirring his coffee. Tilted his head. "Was that a joke?" He could sense the Synth giving a single-shouldered shrug. "It could be."

He spun. "Nah, you tell me if that was a joke."

"I believe a joke is intended to lighten the mood." Its face was still expressionless. Actually, the Phantomhive was glad for that; he wasn't ready for a  _Chucky_ -esque grin this morning.

"Whatever." Digging into the fridge, he pulled out some of the leftover bagged-up chicken from yesterday and began to make a sandwich. The dark-haired Synth tilted its head, obviously portraying concern. "That is an unsuitable breakfast."

"Bite me." Ciel remembered the Synth's lack of sense for sarcasm, and promptly had to explain that the remark was  _not_  an order to fucking nibble on him.

"Would you like me to make br -"

"Nopfh," Mumbled Ciel as he shoved the sandwich into his mouth, shuffling back upstairs to put on his uniform. When he got back downstairs, the Synth was using his iPhone and talking to someone.

 

"Master Ciel will be back shortly," It replied in a clipped voice. Pause. "Yes, Mr Trancy."

That made Ciel hesitate to give the Synth a bollocking for using his phone - this could be  _good_. He glanced at the clock. 9:15AM. Yeah, he figured that if he was gonna be late to his future anyway, he was gonna get a good laugh out of this first. He perched on the stairs, from whence he could see the Synth holding the phone to its ear. The 'bot had its back to him.

"I was ordered to name him Master. No, I do not believe it relates to any possible endeavour for sadism."

Ciel placed a long-fingered hand over his mouth to hold in a chuckle. Trust Alois to always be a cheeky Barbie-blonde fuck.

Pause. "I do not have permission to converse with another Synthetic Human. Declined. No, Synths are not to be used for that purpose - if a Synth is asked to make food, it will. Placing pieces of bread in the circuitry will likely cause malfunctions, Mr Trancy. It would be advisable to have the Synth scanned for toast-related damage."

_I'm gonna lose it_. The dark-haired man squeaked with suppressed laughs. His Synth spoke again, with a slight confused intonation. "Yes, the warranty is under threat of violation. Why are you laughing?"

Ciel burst out in a fit of giggles as he stood, clutching his stomach while descending the stairs. He hadn't laughed this much since he was a kid! Maybe this whole Synth situation wasn't too bad after all. The Synth turned as he approached; Ciel snatched his phone back, still chuckling. "Yo Alois, funny shit man. You have my blessing to talk to him whenever you want."

 

The Synth closed the hand which had previously been holding the iPhone with mechanical precision, and lowered it by its side.

 

" _Him_?" Questioned Alois suspiciously.

"Uh - it, I meant 'it'."

" _Sure. See, he's growing on you._ "

"Bull," Ciel grabbed his coat, car keys, wallet and badge, "what do you want, anyway?"

" _I wasn't kidding about you bringing Mr Vampire over to meet Claude, you know."_

"Well I was - Synth, you stay here while I'm out, got it? Plus -"

"Yes, Master."

"- your place smells like piss."

" _That's 'cause it's filled with your scent. Sticks to the walls, you know?_ " Alois laughed. " _Anyway we could totally double-date._ "

"You're a man, Al, fuckin' act like it. If you insist on fucking your robot, ain't my biz, but you try and get me involved? Last thing you'll ever do." Climbing into his car, Ciel started the engine and turned on the heating to battle the February cold.

Alois was still whining into his ear about visiting him. " _Pleeeease, I wanna see how they interact._ "

"No, you want to connect both their sockets with a cable and see what happens." Silence. " _...How the fuck do you do that?_ "

"I can read you like a magazine. Cheaply and with little effort." He sighed. "I ain't got the money to insure for that kind of experimentation."

" _Ok, ok, not the cable thing then. But seriously you must bring him round because I'm so bored and poor and -"_

"Fine!" Ciel rubbed his temple with his free hand, slouching back in the driver's seat. "I'll fucking do it. See ya later."

" _Have a good day at the office, dear._ "

"Don't push your luck."

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It was incredibly tedious, working in a factory. This place used to be a military camp just south of fair London town, but it had been closed years ago, and bought by Sullivan Fabrics Ltd. At least, that what what the triplets had been able to find out from hacking into the computer network.

Just earlier, they had ambushed one of the human security guards of the fabric factory, and stolen his mobile phone. Canterbury was currently hiding it in his pocket as he and his brothers worked at their respective sewing stations.

All three, after months of being here, had come to one conclusion: slave labour was slave labour, regardless of who or what the slaves were. They worked 18 hours a day in brightly-lit warehouses, perched on uncomfortable wooden stools and barely given any time to recharge. Literally.

It was true that human technology had advanced so much that their manufacturing machines surpassed the production quality of human workers, but Synthetic Humans had that mechanical skill built into them, therefore using them as workers proved just as effective.

The constant whirring and clicking of sewing machines, needles, and conveyor belts was the background music to their existence.

"I'm bored," Said Thompson.

"Me too," Said Timber.

"Me three," Said Canterbury. All three had layered dark hair, and reddish tints in their eyes that threatened to betray who they really were. But just because they were more than Synths didn't mean they couldn't act like them. However, in a room full of normal Synths, they were the only ones which engaged in conversation with each other.

They had also decided that their covert operation was not going too well due to this, but continued chatting, anyway. "Are you finished with that piece of cloth yet?" Asked Canterbury to Timber. Timber shook his head somewhat excessively.

"I've finished this one," Chimed Thompson.

"Wasn't asking you."

"Take the fabric to-"

Footsteps made all three hesitate.

They looked toward the end of the room. The workers were all arranged in aisles, much like a supermarket. Between two of those aisles, aiming straight for them, walked a person.

 

A very fancy person.

 

An ankle-length white fur coat adorned the narrow shoulders. A pearly cravat wrapped elegantly around a slim neck. Straight, grey trousers covered long, slender legs; formal black Oxfords wore the figure well, and the delicate-looking hands were protected by pale gloves, also beautified by the addition of fur cuffs. The figure stopped before all three of them.

"Boys." His voice was mellifluous, entrancing. It complimented his sharp gaze, which was framed by a deluge of platinum locks, styled into a mullet.

"Are you David Bowie?" Asked Timber.

"Bowie?"

"Bowie," Nodded Thompson. "But the older Bowie from the '80s."

"By older he means younger," Corrected Canterbury.

"I am not," Stated the man in his nasal tone.

"Not who?" Asked the triplets.

"Not him."

"Him who?"

"David Bowie!" The raised voice caused the triplets to fall into silence.

Behind the man there appeared four new people: three visored men, bodyguards, and one woman clad all in black. Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in frustration, the man sighed before continuing. "We have received concerns from your owner about your behaviour."

"We've been working as ordered," Timber reassured him, "sir."

The blonde-haired man seemed sceptical. "Be that as it may, you, boys, are different." He stepped closer to the three, all of whom were lined up shoulder to shoulder.

"Synths do not interact with such conscious ease."

Canterbury's arm twitched.

Timber's eyes narrowed.

Thompson bit the inside of his cheek.

 

The man glanced at Canterbury. "CCTV footage taken from this factory shows a coordinated attack on a human security guard earlier today." All three gulped.

The blonde smiled knowingly. "Gentlemen." Canterbury went to jerk away, but the man's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. "It isn't nice to steal," He growled, "and it's a very human thing to do. Tell me, why would a Synth need a mobile phone?"

Timber and Thompson, tense, held baited breaths. The bodyguards lifted their rifles as the rest of the Synths around them continued their work, oblivious. The woman, head down, kept her weapon at her side, pointed down.

"Escape is impossible." The man's violet eyes bored into Canterbury's own.

 

All three broke into combat.

 

Canterbury swung a leg upwards, catching the man in the sternum and sending him stumbling back.

Timber and Thompson both sprang to opposite walls of the warehouse, darting over sewing machines, crates, and workers alike. When both reached their respective sides, they jumped up and kicked off, using the hard surface as a springboard.

"Subdue them!" Yelled the blonde man, clutching his chest, "But do not destroy them! That is an order!"

The bodyguards began firing, bullets ricocheting off brickwork, ploughing through work stations and brutalising machinery. The triplets used the pandemonium to their advantage; as the sounds impacted on the bearings of the men, Timber flew into the first guard, knocking his gun from his grip. The strap over his body meant that the rifle was still within the man's reach. Timber pulled a pair of scissors from his uniform pocket and sliced through the nylon strap; the gun clattered to the floor.

With the man on his back, Timber stabbed him in the shoulder with a scissor blade. The man cried out, rolled Timber off him, managed to get a punch in which blurred the Synth's vision, but he hit back, catching him on the jaw. The guard's head cracked back onto the stone floor, and he lay still.

Meanwhile, Thompson had grabbed a bag of fabric and ripped it open; pieces fell all around, collecting bullets and distracting the guards from hitting their targets. Through the falling curtain of cloth he darted, dodging gunshots and managing to grab the nearest bodyguard by the throat, shoving him off balance; he fell over a work station, at which a random Synth offered him help. The guard sat up, grunting, aiming at Thompson. He froze, analysing possible counter-routes.

_Bang_. Thompson detected the sound of the trigger being pulled before the bullet even left the barrel; he had plenty of time to bend backwards so that the shot raced right over his body. He felt the hot rush of its speeding path graze his stomach before he straightened again. Left, right, he moved, untraceable, forwards, now leap, one leg bent and one leg locked into a kicking stance which caught the man across the cheek. Thompson felt his cheekbone implode under the force of his blow.

He suspected that he had cracked a few of his phalanges. Nothing that a repair kit couldn't fix.

Landing gracefully upon the man's chest, Thompson had to jump up again as the man bucked, a knee lurching upwards to knock him. Thompson fell, landed on his hip awkwardly, heard a popping sound amongst the gunfire and shouting. Suddenly the guard had shoved him onto his stomach and was hauling him up, grabbing onto his upper arms. Thompson remained limp, wouldn't even put weight on his feet, until the guard had him at shoulder height.

"I got one, sir!" The guard shouted, evidently in agony.

Without warning, Thompson snapped his head back, headbutting the man's jaw. Blood sprayed down the man's chin and onto Thompson's hair; he assumed that the man had bitten his tongue.

As the guard moaned in pain, the Synth broke free, spun and flipped him over his hip. The guard landed on his front, Thompson grabbed a glue gun from a near table, and whacked it over his head. The man stayed down, groaning. Thompson ripped the rifle from his person for good measure.

Canterbury had become cornered by the remaining two males, practically tap dancing within their boundaries in order to avoid being shot. He flipped, twisted, ducked and dodged a neverending stream of bullets.

He heard one of the guns give a loud, defeated  _click_ , and he knew this was his chance. Sliding onto the floor, Canterbury rolled behind a row of desks for cover. He heard both guards swear as one stopped to reload, and the other searched for his location.

The other triplets had done the same; all were hiding among the rows and rows of Synth workers in the warehouse, the entirety of whom, apart from the three, were continuing with their work as if this was no matter of concern. They only stopped working when they were either shot or knocked from their posts. Canterbury slowed his breathing. His skin had multiple lesions. Metallic blue blood dampened his clothing and it flowed from his nose.

For a few seconds, the calamity halted, and the room returned to its normal soundtrack.

"Where did they go?" Demanded the man, coughing. "Bloody get them, they must not escape!"

"Sir."

"Get up, you fools." But only one of the two felled guards did so.

The thud of rubber boots on linoleum was sickeningly exciting. Canterbury rested in a crouch. The guards had also began to shuffle around, looking for them. The barrel of a rifle poked in front of the desk behind which Canterbury hid. He pounced, wrestling the rifle from the man's hands. The others rushed to help him but Timber and Thompson were on them, battling once again.

There were four male guards, and only three of them. Canterbury noted that he had long lost sight of the woman, as another guard approached him.

Canterbury held the rifle in both hands and twisted it around. He yanked on the strap around the man's body as he fought, and it slipped over his arms, caught around his neck. Canterbury pulled the strap tighter, cutting off the man's oxygen, and he pointed the attached rifle at the oncoming guard, firing nonstop. The guard dropped, took cover behind a desk. Immediately Canterbury moved forward and his leg shot out, kicking the sewing machine atop the desk backwards. It fell onto the man and he collapsed, unconscious.

Dropping the gun, he finally noticed that he had pulled the strap so tight it had caused the other guard to fall unconscious, too.

He witnessed Timber swing a stool into the body of one guard, and saw Thompson take out the other with a string of well-timed jabs.

With all four guards down, there was only one left to watch for.

Timber heard a furious yell. Thompson felt something plough into his lower right leg and he dropped. Canterbury felt his own torso be pulled backwards by the force of something ripping through his left shoulder, and he gripped the wound tightly. The pain, while beautiful, was most definitely an inconvenience.

 

Through hazy vision, Canterbury could see the outline of the blonde man and the woman, both striding towards where all three were huddled, both holding firearms before them.

"You'll need to come with us-"

" _Was zum Teufel ist passiert!_ " The speakers from all upper corners of the warehouse screeched to life, and the voice of a young woman roared through the tannoy. " _Wer seid ihr denn? Wolf, sag mir wer sie sind!_ "

" _Ich weiß nicht, gnädiges Fräulein_  -"

The sudden sound diverted their attackers' attention. Timber scooped up both of his injured brothers, and they sprinted as best they could for the main doors. The woman's head snapped to them; she started shooting, but the man warned her not to kill them and it further delayed her reaction. With a mighty roundhouse kick, Timber was able to force the wide door open. Tugging both of his brothers along, he strained with the effort; his energy supply wouldn't last long.

It was now or never.

The triplets kept on moving into the darkening rural area beyond, escaping the angry snarls of the strange blonde Bowie-man.

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Translations:

_Was zum Teufel ist passiert! -_  What the hell happened!

_Wer seid ihr denn? Wolf, sag mir wer sie sind!_ \- Who are you? Wolf, tell me who they are!

_Ich weiß nicht, gnädiges Fräulein_ \- I don't know, Madam


End file.
